Certain relationships are sacred – priests, psychologists, wives – endowed with a sort of presumed privacy one requires in a faithful confidante. One can reveal secrets without fear of recrimination and, consequently, one can dig down into some pretty deep emotions. These relationships allow us to learn more about ourselves, to find our true passions and desires, to be real without the superficial undercurrent that intrudes upon our daily lives. Absent social media and mobile technology, these relationships form circles of comfort whereby we embrace our humanity.
Which all leads me to this Obamacare issue and the realization that I now have to develop a new relationship. Today, my insurance company informed me that my current plan is non-compliant, and I will have to purchase a new plan with a new doctor.
As a heterosexual male, I’d always assumed there’d be only one man in my life, a healer with years of study and the sort of dispassionate medical attention one wants when a white-robed male figure dons a rubber glove and sticks a finger up your ass. See, proctology is an important field – the prostate after all is one of those unseen glands that can wreak havoc upon one’s life – and one, which requires a certain amount of emotional detachment. And so, when small-fingered doctor Gianni Corbo M.D., informed me that his company could no longer accept my insurance, and that I’d have to find another doctor (of unknown finger size) to perform my examinations, I suffered more than a few moments of anxiety.
Frankly, I’d always been under the assumption that my rectal area was part of a single lane system. Things leave and never return. After all, no one ever pushes water back into a sewer. The sphincter is the one-way street of heterosexuality, and as we all know, when we see someone driving down a one-way street, its pretty much the same reaction “Asshole!” which has some pretty ironic and comedic undertones given the current circumstance.
On my first trip to the proctologist, there was some trepidation – frankly, even the handshake was a bit daunting – since I knew this man was about to violate me in ways that rapists and prisoners know all too well. Sparing the details of that exam, I’ve decided to spend some time in jewelry shops watching gel-haired salesmen perform ring-sizing for all pre-marital males in hopes of finding a match for my digit requirements. Asking the customers whether or not they are doctors and, if yes, what kind, is not nearly as formidable as testing out proctologists.
The point is, I now have to accept some things. There will be a new man in my life, one with small warm hands and an empathetic nature. There will be checks written with a sense of loss (for ex-doctors and my own innocence). And somewhere in Washington, a President and several representatives will have no idea of the horror they’ve inflicted on a population of men that have no other option than to be doubly defiled.
And this is why I’d like to give the finger to Obamacare.
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